


The Perils Of Parenting

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: When young Frodo falls ill with a sudden fever, Bilbo finds his fears running wild, and seeks the finest (?) medical care available to help his ailing heir. . . .





	1. Tea, Sandwiches, and Feverish Tweens

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the 'remedies' mentioned were gleaned from old documents. They should, in no form, be attempted.

An entire plateful of sandwiches and seed-cakes left out is hardly a rare thing in a hobbit household.

When, however, that supply lasts more than five minutes with a tweenager in the house, the occurrence becomes a strange event indeed. 

And so it was with Bag End that morning: beyond comprehension, Bilbo discovered the plate of mushroom sandwiches and seed-cakes left out for Frodo entirely untouched a full hour after setting them out and calling to his nephew before retiring to the study: after all, he had a *very* great deal of writing to do, and it made more sense than interrupting the affair. To compensate his little nephew, Bilbo had opted to prepare two of the lad's favourite foods: after all, they had had a very nice hot lunch together in the kitchen, and Frodo was old enough to make tea if he liked, not to mention that there were pitchers of milk and apple juice available should he prefer. All in all, Bilbo felt he had left the boy quite well-prepared for a few hours - three at most - of time alone: the child had new books, new games suitable for playing alone, writing-paper and pencils as well as a brand-new journal still smelling of new leather, and full access to the well-stocked pantry. . .as well as to explore the rest of Bag End, with the understanding that the only rooms absolutely forbidden were Bilbo's own when locked.

But he had spent rather longer than planned working over a particular passage, and had taken considerably longer than originally planned, emerging from his study some four hours after entering it. . .only to find that the kitchen seemed untouched. Not a single sandwich or seed-cake was missing. . .nor did anything seem to have been moved in the pantry, not even the leftover apple pie that Frodo had begged for and accepted seconds (and thirds) of only the day before, much to his adoptive uncle's delight. 

Perhaps, Bilbo considered with a half-chuckle, the boy had fallen asleep reading - he had been taking a book into the parlor when last seen, and the younger hobbit's habit of staying up too late reading had been reported to Bilbo by many at Brandy Hall, "just to warn you - up past his bedtime nearly every night, that one!" Still, it was something of a surprise that not even hunger would have woken a growing tween; nonetheless, Bilbo merely shrugged and trotted off in search of his nephew.

At first, there seemed to be no sign of Frodo in the parlor. Not even the sound of soft breathing was to be heard. Yet after a few moments, Bilbo noticed that the crocheted blanket made by Bell Gamgee - last year's birthday-present - had disappeared from its usual place on the back of the settee. Quietly he approached, peering over the sofa-back to find his little nephew curled upon the couch, nestled in the blanket, a book abandoned upon the stool near one small hand. 

Smiling, Bilbo reached to tuck the cover in about Frodo's shoulders more closely, his hand brushing against the lad's still-too-sharp chin.

Warm.

Bilbo frowned, considering. Well, this *is* rather a warm blanket. And the room's warm enough as 'tis. Not to mention that the boy's fully dressed.

Still, it didn't seem quite like the usual coolness of Frodo's small hands and face, and he laid the back of his hand against his nephew's brow. Drowsy blue eyes fluttered open, blinking up at him. . .and Frodo smiled a fragile half-smile.

"Uncle Bilbo - I'm sorry - I didn't mean to oversleep - Was it my turn to make second breakfast? I didn't mean to forget - "

"No, it's not - it's all right, Frodo." Attempting to hush the tween, Bilbo moved the book to the floor and sat upon the stool, facing his charge. The second touch removed all doubt: definitely too warm. "I've only just finished my writing for the afternoon, and came to see whether you'd gotten hungry enough to clear the pantry waiting for me. . . ."

"Afternoon?" Frodo blinked uncertainly, looking slightly pale (and, to Bilbo's notice, a bit green). "I. . .I didn't realise. . . ." He hesitated, looking about, realisation suddenly dawning in the overly bright blue eyes. "No, I. . .I'm not hungry, thank you, Uncle. . .luncheon was more than enough; I'm still full."

A twinge of fear tugged at Bilbo's own stomach. "An old bachelor like me can't eat all those mushroom sandwiches alone, you know. Perhaps one of those, and a cup of tea?"

The tween shook his head, shuddering, looking up at Bilbo rather anxiously. "No, thank you, Uncle Bilbo. . .please, I. . .really, I couldn't stand to think of another mouthful." Cautiously he sat up, pushing aside the blanket, easing slender legs over the edge of the settee. The result was a sudden swaying: fortunately, Bilbo caught the youngster as he wilted, catching him gently up in strong arms before reaching to pull the blanket from the couch, wrapping it gingerly about Frodo's shoulders.

"There now, lad. . .it's all right. Let's just get you back to your bed, shall we?" Frodo merely nodded weakly, putting his head against Bilbo's shoulder, curling up a little in his uncle's arms as the elder hobbit left the parlor, making his way cautiously down the hall. "How long have you been feeling poorly?"

"Not. . .well, not very long. I'm sure I'll be all right in a little while. Tomorrow, if not sooner. All I need is some sleep." Despite this, the tween continued to rest limply against his caregiver, looking relieved as Bilbo brought him into his room, easing him onto the oversized feather-bed, still fluffy and new, and began to undress him. "I ate a large lunch; perhaps that's all."

Large lunch, indeed, Bilbo thought. A bite here and a bite there, that was. Hardly a proper meal, let alone a "large" one! To Frodo, however, he simply nodded. "Perhaps, perhaps. All the same, we might consider having Dr. Greenfield stop by and have a look at you if you aren't feeling better after supper-time. You're a growing lad. . .got to keep up your strength."

"Honestly, Bilbo. . .I'm fine; I promise. . . ." Struggling with the buttons on his trousers, Frodo reddened, flushing profusely at his uncle's commentary. "Just tired. . .that's all."

Tired doesn't sound like it to me, lad, Bilbo nearly muttered beneath his breath. Instead, he forced a smile. "Then let's get you tucked in. If you're feeling well enough when you wake to take a bit to eat and drink, and to get up, perhaps we'll reconsider. But let's see." Helping Frodo ease off the trousers, he set them aside with the shirt and suspenders, rearranging the pillows to support his nephew while the night-shirt was slipped over his head. "There now. Just lie down and let me tuck you in. And this. . ." Going to the mantelpiece, he took a small silver bell, returning to Frodo's bedside and placing it in his nephew's hand before producing a length of strong twine from one pocket. This he tied to the bell-handle, then tied the other end to the post of Frodo's bed. "Is so you can call for me if I'm out of the room and you need me. Now. . .is there anything you'd like? Are you feeling sick?"

Frodo nodded hesitantly. "A. . .a little, maybe."

"All right." The elder hobbit bent over, retrieving the chamber-pot from beneath the bed, setting it on a low stool within easy reach of Frodo's hands. "There now. Half a moment. . . ." Moving aside some of the books on the sill, Bilbo cracked open the window to let in a little fresh air and then returned to the bedside. He smiled down at his wan charge. "I'm just going to fetch you some nice cool water. . .you snuggle down and remember that the bell is there if you need me." 

"Thank you, Uncle Bilbo. I'm sorry to be any trouble." Frodo murmured, already a little drowsy once more.

"You're never a trouble to me, lad." Tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind Frodo's ear, Bilbo left for the promised water, leaving the door ajar on his way out. 

What exactly *does* one do for this sort of thing? The only distinct remembrance he himself could recall of sickness in many years was. . .yes, it was Long Lake; after their barrel-escape from Mirkwood, he had had such a dreadful cold, and had been able to say only "Thag you very buch," rather than making a proper speech, but that had been more than fifty years ago. Frodo's parents had not even married then - in fact, Primmie had been just nearly the very age Frodo was at now. Things must surely have changed in all that time. But. . .he had heard old wives speak more recently than that of children dying from sudden fevers, or going into fits. . .sometimes recovering with their senses intact, sometimes not.

That was that, then. He must send for Dr. Greenfield at once, and no mistake about it.


	2. Greenfield and Goose Dung

Frodo winced as he shifted uneasily in bed, his back and limbs aching miserably. His head hurt, and he felt sick. . .nothing seemed ready to come up, but he did not feel up to chancing any of the water upon the bedside table, thirsty or not. The sun seemed to have already set, judging from the windows. . .but the lamp at his bedside had been lit, and the room held a dim, comfortable glow.

Perhaps Bilbo was already asleep. But. . .no; looking at the clock, Frodo discovered that it was only half-past seven. He would still be awake, and perhaps he wouldn't mind making a cup of peppermint tea or mixing up a bit of milk and brandy: that had settled Frodo's stomach before, during illness at Brandy Hall, and the tweenager rather hoped it might again. Something to drink would be nice, provided it wouldn't make him feel sicker.

"So THIS is young Master Frodo!"

Frodo nearly jumped out of bed, starting as a thunderous voice filled the room. There was the loud CLUMP of a walking-stick, heavy footsteps, CLUMP, heavy footsteps. . .and a large figure bent (rather menacingly, to the tweenager's view) over the sickbed. At once there was a hefty chuckle, the smell of chamomile and pipeweed, and a round face peering into Frodo's own.

"Feeling a bit under the weather, are we?"

"He's been feverish this afternoon, Dr. Greenfield; I put him to bed just about two hours ago. Can you help him?" Bilbo's voice, close and anxious.

Opening his mouth to protest, Frodo was promptly rewarded by the prodding of a wrapped spoon-handle so far into his throat that he gagged, nearly losing the ongoing battle with his stomach. The effort proven futile, he simply looked up at the form looming above him, grimacing as the doctor grinned in an expression usually reserved for younger children.

"We shall see; we shall see. Feeling a bit nauseous, are we, lad? Sick to your stomach?" Frodo nodded, which led to a sudden pressure on his tummy: Dr Greenfield set the spoon aside and began prodding the tweenager's belly through the comforter. "Any trouble with your bowels - looseness, irregularity?" Shaking his head, Frodo felt his face flush bright pink. "Good, good. We might be in time, then, though one can never be too careful! Sit up for me, lad, and tell me how you feel."

Sit up? The thought appalled Frodo. . .but at last, despite his horror, he sat up, the room immediately swirling about him. Firm, strong hands - two sets - caught him, and one felt his brow.

"Ohhhhhhh, you've acted not a moment too soon, Master Baggins. The boy's definitely suffering from an acute fever, complicated by an inability of the youthful body to throw off poisons in the system. We must combat this as aggressively as possible."

"What shall we do, then?"

Frodo swallowed against a rising wave of sickness in his throat as the warm palm pressed against his forehead. 

"Heat. He must have plenty of warmth. . .the fever is best sweated out properly with a flannel night-shirt and plenty of blankets. Hot water-bottles and bed-warmers, if you have them. And a good warming poultice with some elixir to help purify his blood."

Bilbo hesitated a moment, but Frodo saw him nod. "I'll fetch his flannel night-shirt. And plenty of warmers. The blankets are in the cupboard there."

Even before the elder Baggins had closed the door behind him, the doctor hastened to close the window, wrinkling his nose disapprovingly. "Now, now, Master Frodo! Drafts are how we catch chills, and we mustn't allow any drafts to slow our recovery, now, must we? Once we have you tucked up properly, I'll go out and fetch what I need to make up that poultice. . .and then a dose of medicine, of course."

"Please. . .couldn't I just have a sip of apple juice instead? Or. . .or even plain water?"

Dr. Greenfield snorted, looking as if his young patient had just requested permission to run about naked in a snowstorm. "Apple juice? Good gracious, no, lad! I care *far* too much about your welfare to permit any such thing! The juice will impede proper digestion, while plain water thins the blood! No, it's curds and whey you need, something to strengthen you properly against the fever."

"But - "

"No ifs, ands, or buts, my lad!" A firm hand pushed him back against the pillows (albeit gently), and Frodo felt the weight of several blankets being spread across his frame. The room began to seem increasingly warm, and he felt shaky and sick.

"Here now - here's his night-shirt - and some freshly filled hot water-bottles - "

Bilbo! Frodo prepared to protest to his uncle, but it was Bilbo who helped Dr. Greenfield sit him back up with a slight swing, causing Frodo to nearly faint. At once his light cotton night-shirt was pulled over his head. . .and replaced with his warmest winter one, a thick flannel, double-lined by Aunt Dora herself. This on, he was pressed to lie back down, and several hot water-bottles and heated bed-warmers were pushed in beneath the blankets, the bottles laid close to his body.

"Now, then, Master Baggins. . .come and help me with the poultice, and we'll fix the lad right up with that in a moment."

"Frodo? Frodo, I'll be right back. I'll be close by, helping the doctor prepare the medicine to make you feel better. . .try to rest."

Bilbo's voice sounded anxious and affectionate, and Frodo nodded meekly. . .but as soon as his uncle left the room, the tweenager attempted to rise, pushing at the covers. The window. I must get the window open a bit. . .and hide some of these blankets. . . .

But he couldn't move.

The blankets held him fast: there were too many layers, too heavy an array of quilts o'ertop his frame. . .he could neither sit up nor roll out of bed.

Footsteps.

This time it was *not* the scent of chamomile and pipeweed that greeted him. . .but the stench of a barnyard combined with roasted onions. Either might be all right normally, Frodo thought, but the combination together, in a closed room. . . . Even Bilbo looked slightly greenish as he folded back the covers, unfastening Frodo's night-shirt.

"Dr. Greenfield, are - are you certain that this is really - well, necessary?"

"Necessary?" The doctor's voice fairly boomed in Frodo's ears. "Of course it's necessary! Just the thing for a fever - fresh green goose dung, hogs' lard, and roasted onions will cure even the worse of ailments, given enough time and warmth."

Feeling decidedly greenish himself, Frodo closed his eyes, attempting vainly to wish himself elsewhere as the doctor turned the slimy concoction onto his chest, then fastened up his night-shirt over the mess and plopped the blankets back on top. Suddenly, however, he felt a spoon poke at his lips. . . .

"Build up the fire a bit, if you would be so kind, Master Baggins, while I give the lad his first dose of medicine. There, now, Master Frodo - open wide, like a good lad - "

Frodo most certainly felt like doing no such thing, but the slightest effort at protest resulted in the spoon being shoved on into his mouth at the first hint of yielding lips. Swallowing in an effort to avoid choking, he spluttered, gagging. . . .

"Dr. Greenfield - what, precisely, *are* you giving Frodo?"

"A simple mixture of chamomile flowers, new milk, a bit of treacle, some saffron, a few drops of wine, and a good solid handful of pony dung." Dr. Greenfield shrugged nonchalantly, but Bilbo looked dubious.

This was, however, something that Frodo recalled only in hindsight, for at that moment, his stomach rebelled, and he expelled the contents. . .vomiting all over the front of the doctor's suit, drenching the silk waistcoat and shirt and velvet trousers and coat.

Everything blurred in that instant. 

A damp cloth was pressed against his brow, and the oppressive blankets were lifted away: Frodo felt himself gathered up in Bilbo's arms, his uncle rubbing his back soothingly.

"There, now, lad. Ssshhh. It's all right; we'll just get you cleaned up and put back to bed in a few minutes."

"But. . ." Frodo hesitated, trying not to begin gagging again. "Dr. Greenfield - the - this mixture - " He gestured helplessly to the mess of poultice.

"Dr. Greenfield has had to depart for the evening." Something in Bilbo's tone hinted at more to the story than the elder hobbit admitted, but he left it at that. "We shall manage on our own for now, Frodo. You and I. A good warm bath, a clean bed, a fresh night-shirt, some water to rinse your mouth - and then I think it would be best for you to try and sleep if you can. We'll see what comes in the morning."

Overwhelmed with relief, Frodo nodded, snuggling weakly against Bilbo's shoulder as the elder hobbit gathered him up, lifting him from the bed. 

Clean, he thought. Clean sounds. . .nice.


End file.
